Chapter 3

The dashboard lit up like it had been waiting for him.

Amber dials. The needles swept once and settled. A thin LED strip under the tank came on, and somewhere in the bike's chest a small electrical hum started - the sound a machine makes when it remembers it's alive.

The room went quiet in a way I've only heard a few times in my life. Sixty people, and not one of them breathing through their mouths.

Desmond's hand stayed on the key.

"Turn it off," he said.

Nobody moved.

"That's company property," he said, louder. "Turn it off."

"It's not on," I said. "The ignition's on. The engine isn't. You'd have to pull the clutch and press the starter, and you don't know where the starter is, because you've never started this bike in your life."

Somebody in the back made a sound that was almost a laugh.

Desmond pulled the key out. The lights died. He held it up again, but the trophy had gone sour in his hand.

"Any key would do that," he said. "The lock's been replaced. Somebody's been in this bike."

"No," Vivian said.

She was standing at the edge of the platform with her phone in both hands, and she said it the way you'd correct a number on an invoice.

"The ignition is original. Matching numbers. I read the restoration file on Monday - barrel, tumblers, keyway, all 1985. Nobody's been in it." She turned the screen so he could see it. "It's on page nine."

Desmond's jaw worked once.

"Then he stole the key," he said. "From the archive. From a display case. I don't care which. That's theft, and that's a police matter, and I'm done being reasonable about it."

He tapped his earpiece.

"Ruben. Front."

The guard in the navy polo stepped off the wall. He was maybe fifty, built like a refrigerator, and he looked at me the way you look at a problem you've been paid to move.

"Sir," he said. "I'm going to need you to come with me."

"Give me one minute," I said.

"You've had your minute."

"Ruben," Desmond said, and his voice had found its footing again. "Walk him out."